


Chain Me Up or Set Me Free

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apologies, Arguing, Brief Mentions of Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Co-workers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Forced Proximity, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Muggle Technology, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Person of Color Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, unbreakable bonds, unusual careers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: This horrid bonding thing is all Potter’s fault, obviously. As for what comes after that? Draco’s not quite sure.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 758
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	Chain Me Up or Set Me Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentmoppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/gifts).



> Big big thank you to F for the beta even with the time crunch – I appreciate you! Much love to the mods as well for being understanding throughout this process, and for pulling off this amazing fest for another year <3 To my dear giftee – I thoroughly enjoyed your signup, and I wish I had the time to integrate all of your tropes, as they were so much fun to read through. I hope you enjoy the few that I went with in the end!

This is all Potter’s fault, Draco thinks, as he watches Potter’s hex go wide, as the pile of Neville’s strange fan mail in the corner explodes.

This is _so_ Potter’s fault.

In the moments before the backlash hits them, the entire day flashes before his eyes: it was an exceedingly normal morning, during which Draco ate an exceedingly normal breakfast and then Apparated to what was supposed to be his exceedingly normal job. He works for Neville, who’s turned out to be pretty tolerable for a Gryffindor, seeing as he took pity on Draco several years back and offered him a job as a potioneer at his herbology company when no one else would even think of hiring him.

He was just settling down at his desk to go through the potions orders for the day when Potter walked in. Potter—who is _not_ the tolerable sort of Gryffindor—shouted something unintelligible at the sight of him, immediately drew his wand to start an argument, and all hell broke loose.

The explosion shakes the office and reverberates through Draco’s bones, although thankfully everything but the pile of fan mail and a wastebasket that’s knocked over by the blast is spared. All be told, it wasn’t even the strongest magical explosion Draco’s ever seen, given he had joint Potions with the Gryffindors throughout Hogwarts—

Except that suddenly, his head fucking hurts.

“Ow,” Draco says, glaring at Potter suspiciously, holding his wand aloft in case Potter tries anything more.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Potter asks, reaching a hand up to rub his own head. “Bloody hurts!”

“What did _I_ do? I didn’t do anything! You’re the one who cast!” Draco complains, and okay, sure, maybe he goaded Potter a little bit, but Potter already had his wand drawn at that point, so it was obvious he wasn’t going to believe anything Draco said anyway.

Footsteps sound from the hallway, and a moment later Neville bangs the door open, looking alarmed. “What was that sound?” he asks, then takes in the scene and frowns. “Honestly, I left you two alone for _three minutes_ to process some paperwork—”

“What paperwork?” Draco grumbles, despite the fact that his head is aching even more now. He presses his hand to his forehead, hoping it will make it stop. It doesn’t.

“The onboarding paperwork for Harry—that’s not the point. You two can’t just fight in here!”

“ _I_ didn’t cast anything,” Draco points out, because it is true. Technically. “And what do you mean, onboarding paperwork? You don’t mean Potter’s going to work here?”

“Yes,” Neville says, looking as if he’s developing a headache of his own. “And you’re not allowed to complain about it, because you know we’ve needed someone with defense expertise for as long as we’ve been open. Besides, he took maths in uni to boot.”

Draco stares at Neville, then at Potter (who still looks like he’s deeply in pain, which serves him right, the prick), then Neville again. “You hired _Potter_ as our new accountant?”

“Draco,” Neville says, then stops, shaking his head. “You know what? I’m not even going to try to argue about this with you. It’s my company, and I’m going to turn around and pretend this whole fight never happened, and you two are going to clean up in here and come to some sort of agreement by the time I get back. Yeah?”

Draco sorely wants to argue, but also if Neville boots him out onto the street he really doubts anyone else will take a chance on hiring him. Not to mention he’s unfortunately become fond of Neville over the years he’s been here, so he supposes the gracious thing to do would be to relent and at least attempt to smooth things over with Potter.

After all, _Draco_ wasn’t the one doing anything wrong anyway.

“Fine,” he says, although he can’t avoid adding a small sniff of displeasure at the end.

“Harry?” Neville asks, brows high.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Potter mumbles, which is very insincere of him, if you ask Draco.

Neville leaves the room, and then it’s awkwardly silent, as Draco looks around to survey the mess they’ve made. He raises his wand, at which Potter automatically adopts a defensive stance, and Draco rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Potter,” he complains, and casts a simple spell to right the knocked over wastebasket.

“I can’t believe _you_ work here,” Potter mutters. “He didn’t tell me that!”

“Well, maybe that’s because I’ve been working here for years without issue,” Draco points out. His head still hurts, and talking with Potter is only making it worse, but he promised Neville, so. 

“But you’re…” Potter says, and then gestures wildly with one hand.

“Evil? Mean? Death Eater scum of the earth?” Draco asks flatly, and has the pleasure of seeing Potter flush at that.

“I just—I just didn’t expect it,” Potter finishes finally.

“Neither did I, but here we are,” Draco says. “Now, if you don’t mind, I quite like this job. If you can’t handle it, maybe it would be best if you went to talk to Neville and turned it down after all.”

Potter’s eyebrows fly up. “Not a chance,” he says immediately, which Draco expected, but it was worth a shot anyway.

“Fine,” Draco says, and picks up his wand again, Vanishing the scattered bits of what used to be the strange fan mail pile. 

“Fine,” Potter says. “I’m going to go do my paperwork.”

“You don’t have to announce it to the world,” Draco says drily.

“Arse,” Potter mutters, which is probably a two out of ten on the creative insults scale.

Draco’s just about to scoff and return to his desk when Potter turns to walk away—and Draco’s head absolutely explodes in pain. 

“Bloody _fuck_ ,” he gasps, staggering over at the splitting ache in his skull. He’s barely aware that, on the other side of the room, Potter is doing the same, but it’s difficult to focus on anything except the pain. “What did you _do?_ ”

“I didn’t do anything!” Potter shouts back, sounding strained. “I only cast a Bat Bogey. It didn’t even hit you!”

“Obviously you did _something_ ,” Draco says, and the pain is so bad there are tears forming in his eyes. “Shit, just make it stop.”

Potter mumbles something in response.

“I can’t hear you,” Draco tells him, clutching at his head.

Potter moves a bit closer to say, “I don’t know _how_ ,” except that the moment Potter moves, the pain suddenly lessens.

Draco stares at Potter. “Wait… no,” he says. Then, experimentally, he takes a step toward Potter.

The level of pain drops again—it’s now back in debilitating headache territory, as opposed to tempting Draco to rip his brain out as it was a few moments ago.

Potter’s eyes go wide. “What is this?” he asks, even as he takes a few steps closer to Draco, even as the pain lessens a little more.

“For the love of Merlin,” Draco says, a realization suddenly dawning on him. He strides a few steps closer and reaches out to Potter. “Give me your hand.”

“What? Why?” Potter asks, looking suspiciously at him.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Just do it.”

Potter glares at him, but he does it anyway, reaching his hand out to clasp Draco’s.

The pain nearly fades entirely.

Draco gasps in relief, but at the same time, his gut starts churning. “Fuck,” he says. “It was probably something hidden in Neville’s fan mail.”

Potter makes a face, and Draco can tell he’s figured it out too. “Some sort of proximity spell?”

“Looks like it,” Draco says, and drops Potter’s hand. Immediately the headache is back, albeit in manageable levels, standing as close to Potter as he is. He resists the urge to shout or maybe slam his fist on a desk like Father used to do. Instead he glares at Potter. “Fuck. This is absolutely your fault, you know.”

Potter glares back. “It’s not! Ugh, you know what? I don’t care what you think, Malfoy. The sooner we can get it fixed, the better.”

For once, Draco agrees.

\--

“I don’t think it can be fixed,” Granger—or Granger-Weasley now, which is really far too long, so Draco supposes he ought to just call her Hermione at this point—says, snapping shut the thick tome in front of her and worrying at her lip.

Potter makes a sharp noise of discontent. “Merlin. Really?”

“At all?” Draco asks, feeling similarly horrified.

“I mean, there’s a way to make it dissolve, technically, but—”

“Then what is it?” Potter interjects.

“Maybe if you quit interrupting, she’ll tell us,” Draco chides him, causing Hermione to give both of them a look that clearly says ‘ _knock it off_.’ And sure, maybe they’re being a little childish, but they’re also currently undergoing the excruciating embarrassment of having to hold hands while they talk to her in order to avoid immense pain, so Draco can’t really find it in himself to care at the moment.

“As I was _saying_ ,” Hermione starts again. “The only way out of this isn’t something I would recommend, nor do I think it’s going to be something you two want to do, either.”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” Draco says, deflating as he runs through the possibilities. He’s had enough education on the ways of wizarding society to know how this one goes, but he can’t help but hope that maybe he’ll be wrong.

“What is it?” Potter asks again, looking even more alarmed than before.

Hermione sighs. “Marriage,” she says simply, sinking Draco’s hopes of ever getting out of this mess.

Potter frowns. “That’s not that bad, is it? Sure, it’s uncomfortable, but can’t we just get married and then divorce immediately after?”

“From the way she’s put it, I’m going to guess it’s not that kind of marriage,” Draco tells him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Potter’s lack of knowledge. “She means a wizarding marriage. One of the bonded ones.”

“I was asking Hermione,” Potter complains, but Hermione shakes her head.

“No, Draco’s right,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s archaic, really, and crude. From what I can tell, this was a bonding spell used in the early days to encourage betrothed witches and or wizards to develop a stronger relationship before they married. It was used in a lot of arranged marriages, and _technically_ there’s no compulsion component to the spell, but the only way it can be broken is by having a permanent marriage bond cast, so really it’s still fairly barbaric. And the type of marriage bonds that will satisfy the bond are generally pretty awful, too—think Unbreakable Vow, but worse, because there are absurd rules to follow, depending on the bond.”

“So we couldn’t get out of it if we married,” Potter says.

Hermione nods. “Unfortunately not.”

“So we’re just… stuck? Like this?” Potter asks, gesturing at their intertwined hands, and Draco has to admire that he’s still putting up a fight, because Draco himself gave up the moment Hermione uttered the word ‘marriage.’

“I’m really sorry, Harry,” Hermione says, and honestly she looks more distressed than Draco feels. Then again, Draco is starting to think that maybe he’s in shock, because his past with Potter he would’ve fully expected this news to give him a flat out heart attack. “I’ll look into it more, of course, but there’s not a lot of leeway written into older bonds like this one.”

“Fuck,” Potter says, then shoots Draco a suspicious look. “Why aren’t you complaining more, anyway?”

Draco does roll his eyes this time. “There’s nothing that can be done, Potter.”

“Yes, but you complain all the time,” Potter accuses.

Draco can feel his defenses start to rise. All right, sure, he was a brat in school. But he likes to think he’s grown past that at this point, so why can’t Potter do the same? “I stopped complaining about things at about the same time my father forced me to get this,” he says, and drops Potter’s hand so he can yank up his left sleeve.

The room goes awkwardly silent.

“Oh,” Potter says.

Too late, Draco remembers that Hermione is also sitting there, and shame twists in his gut. She doesn’t even say anything, but he impulsively covers his Mark again. “Sorry,” he says, making it obvious it’s to her and not to Potter.

“It’s fine,” she says, looking away.

“No, really,” he says, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself. “I’m sorry.”

She gives him a long look then, her brow slightly wrinkled. Then she nods. “Okay,” she says, and he lets out a breath of relief.

It seems they both know, then, that he isn’t only apologizing for what’s happened just now.

Potter, on his part, hasn’t interrupted the moment, but Draco can tell he’s starting to get antsy. It’s only then that Draco realizes a dull pain in his head has returned, and he sighs and reluctantly grabs for Potter’s hand again. 

Potter doesn’t thank him. Draco doesn’t know why he thought to expect it.

\--

They tell Neville. They kind of have to, given that the incident happened at work and also that they took too long of a lunch break waiting for Hermione to have a spare moment free. Also, they’re still holding hands because they haven’t yet managed to find a better way to stop the terrible headaches, which makes it nearly impossible to hide that something has happened.

In response, Neville gives a long sigh and rubs at his temple with one hand. “What am I going to do with you two?”

Draco wants to say something along the lines of, _well you should’ve considered that when you hired him,_ but in the end he decides he’s going to be the bigger person and stay silent.

Potter is having none of that. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be working here!”

Draco can’t resist rolling his eyes. “Look. It was all over the _Prophet_ when I was hired, Potter.”

“Well, maybe I don’t pay attention to the papers like you do,” Potter bites back. “I’m sure you were happy to have your claim to fame, though, weren’t you?”

Anger starts to churn in Draco’s gut, and he’s just about to turn and have a go at Potter when Neville says, “Merlin, would you two just _stop it_ already?”

For a moment, there’s silence, and Potter has the sense to look ashamed.

“Harry, I know this was a shock, but you can’t just go charging at everything like when we were in school, all right?” Neville continues. “And Draco—you’re better than this.”

Draco sighs and nods. He _is_ better than this. He doesn’t know what’s come over him today—lately he’s been quite good at lying low, keeping his emotions in check.

It’s just stupid Potter with his stupid volatility, baiting Draco until he has no choice but to react.

Even now, Potter’s hand is gripping his own so hard it hurts. A punishment, he’s sure.

“I suppose I’ll have to reorganize the office,” Neville is muttering, looking around at the space, at the desks that will now need to be placed side by side in order to accommodate for their situation.

Draco looks around too, at the warm sunlight dappling the floor and the dozens of plants lining the windowsills. He finds himself mourning the time not so long ago when being at work was peaceful. Obviously that won’t be true with Potter around.

“I can help,” Potter offers, still sounding gruff.

“No, no,” Neville says, and shakes his head, looking more stressed than Draco’s seen him since the company was a newborn. “Why don’t you two go home? I’m sure you have things to figure out.”

Grateful for an escape, Draco nods. “Okay,” he says, and before Potter can protest he drags him out the door.

It’s not until they reach the Apparition point that Potter stops him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Potter asks, an unnecessary amount of vitriol in his tone.

Draco sighs, a headache of an entirely different sort starting to form. “What?”

“We can’t just go home,” Potter says. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy seeing what happens when we Apparate to completely different locations.”

Draco thinks of the resounding pain he felt when Potter was barely several paces away and winces. Fine. Potter’s right. “What do you suggest, then?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer and is dreading hearing it.

“We have to go home together, obviously,” Potter says. Potter is very good at making him feel like an idiot. Draco is already loathing the next couple of days, stuck to Potter like this—

Only, it’s not just going to be the next couple of days, is it? 

They’re never getting out of this.

Abruptly, it hits Draco just how serious this, and his stomach drops. Fuck. How is he going to deal with being with Potter literally all the time when they can barely stand in the same room without fighting?

“Malfoy?” Potter says, and waves his hand in front of Draco’s face.

Draco clenches his teeth and sighs. It seems like the only way he’s going to get through this is by being as unobtrusive as possible, because maybe then Potter won’t bother to goad him all the time. He’s gained a lot by being unobtrusive in the last few years. It should be fine. Right?

“Fine,” Draco says as pleasantly as he can muster. “Do you have a preference?”

Potter’s eyes narrow, as if he doesn’t trust Draco’s sudden change in tone. To be fair, it’s a mask. Despite all of Potter’s shortcomings, his instincts have always been good. “Your place,” Potter says. “But we have to go to mine so I can get some of my things.”

Draco is barely aware of the argument on the tip of his tongue until he has to click his mouth shut again. He’d been expecting Potter to want to go to his own home, he realizes—it seems like something that would be important to Potter, home and family and all that rot. 

His suspicion of Draco, it seems, is stronger than his ties to home.

It goes to show how weary Draco is that this doesn’t even surprise him.

“Fine,” Draco says, and crooks his arm for Side-Along.

They land on the other side with a neat pop, and Draco is surprised to find that instead of being messily homey like he’d anticipated, the kitchen they’ve landed in looks barely used.

“Come on,” Potter says, tugging him toward a set of stairs.

It occurs to Draco somewhere between floors that he’s been here before, as a young child—this is the old Black residence. He can’t keep his mouth from dropping open, but he forces it shut before Potter sees. Potter must’ve inherited it from Sirius Black, he thinks.

Abruptly he thinks of the Manor, technically his, but absolutely not somewhere he’d be comfortable living. Looking at the musty relics littered on the walls as they climb the stairs to Potter’s bedroom, he’s starting to understand why Potter doesn’t want to be in his own home.

Potter packs quickly, opting to let go of Draco despite the increase in pain in both of their heads. By the time he’s done, the slide of Potter’s hand into Draco’s feels like a breath of fresh air, and Draco sighs. Even if this whole thing is over someday, he’s going to end up with some weird Pavlovian response to Potter by the end of it, isn’t he?

“Let’s go,” Potter says, still brusque, but Draco can see that he too is relieved not to be in pain anymore.

Potter doesn’t even spare the room a last glance as Draco Apparates them to his flat.

\--

Draco wishes he could leave Potter to settle in, but the moment he lets Potter go, they both wince. Potter gives him a look that says ‘ _don’t even think about it_ ,’ and Draco resigns himself to being dragged around as Potter unpacks.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long. “Nimsy,” he calls, and she pops into the room. Truth be told, Draco is not altogether certain of the ethical implications of house-elves; he’s starting to think that Hermione was onto something back at school with her elf campaigning. But Nimsy has been his nurse elf since the day he was born, and she cried and screamed an alarming amount when Draco declared he was leaving her behind at the Manor. Ultimately he decided it was kinder to take her with him, though he attempts to do most of his own cooking and cleaning unless he’s sick.

Now, however, is a different story. “Nimsy, I have a predicament,” he says.

Nimsy brightens, as she always does when the potential for work is mentioned. “Yes, Young Master?”

“There was an incident with Mr. Potter here,” he says, gesturing at Potter with his free hand. “We’ve been more or less bound together for the foreseeable future, and I think that it’s going to be rather difficult to take care of the flat while we’re like this.”

“Ooh, Young Master is saying he wants Nimsy’s help! Of course, Young Master! Nimsy can do anything he is needing!”

“Thank you, Nimsy,” Draco says, registering that Potter’s giving him a strange look. He ignores it. “Do you think you could start dinner for us?”

“Yes, Young Master, sir!” Nimsy says, and pops out of the room with an air of excitement.

Then the room is silent. Draco’s not sure what to say, and Potter doesn’t seem particularly inclined to speak either, so in the end Draco clears his throat. “I suppose we should go out to the kitchen.”

“We’re going to have to share a bed, aren’t we?” Potter asks, completely ignoring what Draco’s just said.

Draco blinks irritably at him. “Yes,” he says, because he thought that was a given.

Potter’s face twists even further into a scowl. “What a nightmare.”

“Look,” Draco says, because he’s getting fed up with Potter’s whingeing. “Things are going to be like this for the forseeable fucking future, so would you shut up and get over it? It’s not like I’m enjoying this either.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Draco gives a tight shake of his head and starts leading them to the kitchen. There, they watch Nimsy prepare dinner, and Potter is thankfully silent.

\--

Being apart for even the time it takes to change into nightclothes is highly unpleasant. Draco doesn’t even want to think about separating to shower in the morning; at this rate even being away from Potter to piss is a nuisance.

“I sleep on the right side,” Potter says without preamble, and Draco gives him a dour look but concedes. It’s been rare for him to share his bed with someone else, and he tends to sprawl out in the middle more than anything.

It gives him a twisted sense of pleasure to think that might end up getting on Potter’s nerves.

They crawl into bed, strange enough because it’s the guest room and even more so because Potter’s here, but regardless everything is going fine and well until Draco realizes that holding Potter’s hand means he can’t get into his preferred sleep position.

“Potter.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep like this.”

“Well, tough,” Potter says. “If we’re not linked together somehow, then we’re going to accidentally separate at some point, and I don’t fancy waking up in the middle of the night because of a headache.”

Draco hates to admit that Potter has a point, but that doesn’t mean he wants to give up his sleep for it either. “Are _you_ comfortable?”

Draco can nearly hear Potter trying to weigh which is worse: conceding to Draco or lying. “No,” Potter finally admits on a huff.

“There must be a better way,” Draco says.

Potter gives a long sigh. Then he lets go of Draco’s hand, and Draco yelps.

“Hey—”

“Calm down,” Potter mutters, and a second later he’s scooting closer on the bed and sliding his arm around Draco’s waist, a sudden, warm weight. Draco freezes. “Are you happy now?”

Draco’s not sure if he’s happy or not. Actually, he’s mostly tense, because he can’t quite say he’s ever actually cuddled up to someone like this, save for maybe his mother when he was very young. “It’s fine,” he grits out. At least now he can roll onto his side, which he can admit is far more comfortable than before.

In response, Potter moves closer, until his body is pressed all up against Draco’s back. And then Draco’s eyes widen for a different reason, because suddenly the pain is completely and totally gone.

“Oh,” he says in surprise.

“You felt that too?” Potter asks after a pause, and he also sounds like he’s in awe.

“Yes,” Draco admits, letting his eyes slip shut in relief. The sudden absence of pain is shocking. He thought the hand-holding numbed it well enough, but now that he doesn’t hurt at all, he realizes that even when their hands were linked, there was a slight, insidious ache behind his temples that didn’t go away until this very moment.

“Guess it responds to the extent of contact,” Potter mumbles. 

Draco nods in response. He means to say something, but then he has a sudden and intrusive thought about what the bond might do if they were even closer—like if they had sex, for instance—and he’s so violently horrified at having thought that with Potter draped around him like this that he keeps his mouth shut.

Which is well and good, because Potter’s breath is lengthening in a way that makes Draco think he’s falling asleep anyway.

Draco relaxes into the mattress and tries to do the same.

\--

Draco is not a morning person. 

As it turns out, neither is Potter, which makes the morning a mess of exhausted grumbling and bickering at each other (“Stop elbowing me, Potter!” “I’m just brushing my teeth!” “Well, brush your teeth somewhere else, then!” “Malfoy, I _can’t leave_ —”)

By the time they get out the door, Draco is certain that he’s going to explode if he has to put up with this for much longer. He has several fleeting fantasies about quitting his job and living on the streets, but then he remembers the searing headache that he gets if he so much as steps away from Potter for a moment, and suddenly the idea of running away seems much less appealing.

It was bad enough showering this morning—they had to resort to standing on opposite sides of the curtain, and though the pain wasn’t as severe as it could be with the proximity, he’s not sure either of them were in there for more than five minutes.

They finally arrive at work, and it dawns on Draco for the second time that no matter what, even if this horrid curse gets lifted, they’re still going to have to work together for the foreseeable future. _Merlin_. If they weren’t bonded he’d be tempted to make life so awful for Potter that Potter would voluntarily choose to leave, but then again, he supposes it would be fairly rude of him to disservice Neville by wreaking havoc on their workplace.

Unfortunately, it looks like he’s stuck with Potter—literally.

They move their desks closer together without incident. Potter is surprisingly quiet as they settle into work, ankles hooked together so they can leave their hands free—quieter than Draco knew he could be. He supposes he doesn’t know Potter very well at all; on the other hand, he supposes he knows some parts of Potter, the mean, ugly parts, better than most.

Besides a few cursory exchanges about work, they don’t speak for the rest of the workday.

The week continues in much the same way. It’s fine, really, it is—it has to be, because it’s probably going to be this way for the rest of their damned lives—like hell he’s _marrying_ Potter. No, he’ll continue to put up with Potter’s ugly glances and tense morning exchanges.

It’s not that bad.

It only hurts a little every time Potter looks at him like he’s Thestral shit on the bottom of his shoe.

He can tell Potter hates him with every fibre of his being. It’s written across his face each and every day, and Draco can’t do a thing about it.

It hits him somewhere toward the second week that he doesn’t actually _want_ Potter to hate him.

The worst part of it is that Potter is actually nice to everyone else—charismatic even, in a weird way, because of how genuine he is. Draco supposes Potter’s being genuine with him too, if only in the way that Potter can’t seem to lie about hating him. 

It’s better than Potter pretending to like him.

Draco still doesn’t like Potter, but he doesn’t hate him either.

And there is one more problem.

It starts a week and a half into their predicament, lying in bed for the night, Potter’s arm slung around Draco’s waist in a way he’s horrified to find is very comfortable. It’s then that Draco realizes, with even more horror, that Potter is a man, is wrapped around him in his bed, and that he’s rather fit to boot.

In retrospect, it’s rather silly that he’s never thought of it before. Sure, he’s seen that Potter’s eyes are quite nice when he’s not glaring at him, and his shoulders are broad and wide now that he’s grown into himself, and—

All right. Maybe he has noticed.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to _do_ anything about it. Except here, lying with Potter’s body curled up against his back, he kind of wants to.

“You’re not asleep,” Potter grumbles from behind him, and Draco realizes with a start that he’s gone all tense.

“You’re not either, what’s it to you?” Draco grumbles back, embarrassed to have been caught.

“Your magic gets all prickly when you’re tense,” Potter mumbles, sleep in his voice, and Draco tries and fails to avoid a hitch in his breath.

Potter can sense magic. That’s not attractive, not at all. Right?

Right.

Gritting his teeth, Draco tries the best he can to put all thoughts of Potter out of his mind, but given Potter is holding him right now, it’s fairly difficult.

And so things get a little more complicated.

\--

Now that Draco’s noticed his—well, whatever, _attraction_ to Potter—gets a whole lot harder to stop noticing. 

Potter sets three wand alarms in the morning and still somehow wakes up late. For the first week it drove Draco up the wall, and it still does, but nowadays he finds himself staring at Potter in the time before he wakes, watching his chest rise and fall with sleep, wondering exactly why Potter hates him so much.

Then Potter wakes up, and Draco’s stomach goes sour from the immediate glare in Potter’s eyes.

Potter takes his tea wrong (five sugars is far too many) and refuses to eat his eggs scrambled and hovers over Draco while he does anything and everything—and yes, that part is mostly because they’re stuck together, but Draco can feel Potter’s eyes on him constantly. Potter’s always judging, he thinks, judging the things he says or doesn’t say, judging the way he cooks and styles his hair and does up his shoelaces.

Sometimes Draco feels like he can’t breathe, like the only thing that will help is getting away from Potter. But then, at night, they crawl into bed and Potter puts his arms around him so easily that it almost seems natural, and somewhere in the mess of days after the incident, Draco’s heart starts hurting.

Potter doesn’t mean it, the touching. It’s only because it stops the aching in their heads. And Draco appreciates that too, of course, but somewhere along the way it’s come to mean more, and he hates that he looks forward to it every single night.

He wonders if Potter knows that he’s thinking these things. But Potter can’t read his mind, and they barely speak to each other beyond what’s necessary.

Potter spends every night with Draco, but somehow Draco feels even more alone than when he was by himself.

\--

The third week after everything started, they’re standing in the supermarket, buying bread, when Potter scoffs under his breath and Draco finally snaps.

“Potter, would you _stop?_ ” Draco nearly shouts, leaving Potter looking taken aback.

The look only lingers for a moment before Potter’s face hardens again. “Stop what?”

“You know what you’re doing,” Draco says snidely, putting back the loaf of bread he’d been about to put into the shopping trolley. “Just mind your own fucking business, would you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Potter says brusquely, and maybe he doesn’t. That almost makes Draco angrier.

“Glaring at me,” Draco grits out, dropping his voice so as to not cause a scene in the Muggle supermarket they’ve been frequenting to avoid the rest of the wizarding world. “Acting like everything I do is wrong.”

“I don’t do that,” Potter grumbles, scowling even more intensely than before.

“You _do_ ,” Draco insists, and then he sighs, because obviously there’s no reasoning with Potter when he’s in a snit like this. “Look, let’s just leave.”

“No,” Potter shoots back, and picks up the bread Draco was just holding. “Take it. I don’t care.”

“Fine,” Draco snaps.

“Fine.”

If they hadn’t been hand in hand at that moment, Draco’s sure Potter would’ve stalked off. As it is, it’s tense even as they pay for their groceries, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief as soon as they’re able to Apparate home.

Usually he’s able to brush it off, to at least pretend like Potter’s ugly expressions aren’t upsetting him—but this time is different, because Potter doesn’t even give him the chance to pretend nothing happened.

Instead Potter whirls on him, dropping the bags of groceries carelessly on the floor of the living room. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Draco stares at him incredulously, caught off guard for just a moment by the utter audacity of Potter saying something is wrong with _him_ —as if Draco had been the one to start it. No. He’s not going to stand for this—not this time. 

“What is wrong with _you?_ ” Draco hurls back at him.

“I didn’t even do anything!” Potter shouts, and Draco almost wants to hex him.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Draco spits out. “I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”

“Oh, shove it,” Potter bites back. “You’re the one acting so high and mighty all the time, like you’re above me and everyone else!”

“What?” Draco says, stung—because he may have been like that before, but he certainly doesn’t think he’s like that now. If anything, he knows now more than ever how shitty the things he’s done in the past have been.

“Don’t ‘what’ me, you barely even speak to anyone at work, let alone me!”

At this point Draco wants to tear his hair out, or Potter’s hair, or maybe both—the anger building in his gut is strong enough that he can’t think straight.

So he does the most idiotic thing possible, and lets go of Potter’s hand to stalk away.

The pain only takes seconds to hit, lancing through his skull, making him drop to a crouch in the floor with the searing heat of it.

“Malfoy, _fuck_ ,” Potter grits out, but Draco can barely process it because it hurts, it _hurts_ —

Then suddenly it doesn’t hurt anymore, and there are warm arms around him from behind.

Draco’s ears are ringing. It takes him a moment to fully process what’s just happened, but when his head clears a little, he realizes that Potter is there, crouched down behind him, holding him.

“Don’t,” Potter says, and curls his head further into the crook of Draco’s shoulder, “Don’t do that again.”

“Okay,” Draco says, feeling a little numb. Somewhere between the awful pain of the bond and the warmth of Potter’s arms, his anger seems to have receded, and he’s not sure he could get it back even if he wanted to.

He’s tired of being angry. He’s tired of Potter glaring at him and having to hold his tongue for fear that he’ll just confirm Potter’s negative image of him if he speaks; he’s tired of feeling like he can’t breathe except when they go to sleep. Most of all, he’s tired of Potter hating him, because some small part of Draco has decided it wants Potter to touch him even more, and that part dies a little inside every time Potter’s eyes go hard.

This, though… this is nice. Potter’s arms are warm, and slowly, Draco maneuvers so that he’s seated instead of crouching, legs curled beneath him, leaning back against Potter’s chest.

It feels good. Of course it does—pleasure is the absence of pain after all, or maybe just the opposite of it, and having Potter so close to him like this means he doesn’t have to hurt anymore. Draco doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and neither does Potter, and for now that has to be okay.

Finally, Potter lets out a long sigh. “Suppose we should put the groceries away.”

Draco grimaces. Nimsy sleeps early, so instead of calling her he feels for his wand, pulling it out and muttering an organization incantation with a quick flick. “There,” he says, as the groceries fly off into the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.

“Mm,” Potter hums noncommittally, and Draco expects him to get up then, but instead Potter adjusts his position and pulls him closer.

“Potter, what…?” Draco can’t help saying, even though the last thing he wants is for this to stop.

“’S’nice,” Potter says. “Isn’t it?”

Draco swallows thickly. “I suppose.”

Potter makes a noise of discontent. “Why don’t you ever say what you’re thinking?”

“Who says I don’t?” Draco mutters, but there’s very little of the bitterness from earlier—it’s hard to be angry with Potter when Potter feels so soft and warm.

When Potter shrugs, Draco can feel it. “You barely say anything, and when you do, it’s always just—I dunno. Pleasantries. Like you’re hiding anything that’s actually you.”

Draco thinks of the bland expression he’s taught himself to wear in public and at work, trying the best he can not to step on anyone’s toes, and he has to grimace. “Well, what else am I supposed to do? If someone says I’ve so much looked at them wrong, it could violate my parole, so.” He’s trying not to be bitter about it, but he’s really very bitter all the same.

“Oh,” Potter says, and then, “I didn’t realize.”

“You don’t realize a lot of things, Potter,” Draco grumbles, and then sighs. “Surprised you’ve even noticed this.”

“We’re together literally all the time,” Potter says, and then sighs. “Anyway, I know you. Or—knew you, at least.”

Draco is glad the hallway is dark. He flushes and looks down at the floor. “You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not anymore.”

“Well, it’s not like you care,” Draco says, scowling. “You hate me. You don’t even try.” Something thick and painful is forming in his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s even said it, because they’re not lovers, or even friends. Potter doesn’t owe him anything. But Draco is going to be spending every living moment with him for quite possibly the rest of his life. Maybe he’s owed this much, at least—for Potter not to hate every inch of him so long as they live.

Potter’s silent for a moment. Then he sighs. “I’ve been an arse, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Draco says without hesitation.

“I don’t hate you,” Potter says then, and Draco can’t help the terrible way his heart flips in his chest.

“You sure don’t act like it,” he points out grumpily.

“Sorry,” Potter says, in an absolute first.

Draco’s jaw drops open. “Say that again?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Did the great Harry Potter just _apologize?_ ”

“Oh, shut it,” Potter grumbles. “Anyway, obviously I’m not that great, or we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

“That is true,” Draco says, because it is.

Potter sighs. “Earlier,” he says, “in the store. I don’t mean to glare at you all the time.”

“But you do it anyway.”

“Yeah,” Potter says. “It’s stupid things, mostly. Just. Ugh. This is embarrassing.”

“What is?” Draco asks, interest piqued.

Potter’s silent for a moment. When he finally talks, the words come slowly. “I thought you must be a worse person than you are,” he says then. “I thought that you must’ve been acting, this whole time. You had to be. But…” He sighs. “I’m starting to think that maybe you’re not.”

“I do try,” Draco says, feeling a little bit irritable.

“I didn’t know you were still on parole,” Potter says. “I thought they’d pardoned you after your three months in Azkaban.”

“You probably didn’t know. You’d fucked off to uni by the time they amended my sentence,” Draco says, lips going tight. He doesn’t like to think of it—being grabbed in the middle of Diagon and forced back to the Ministry, terrified he’d be put in Azkaban again, terrified that he’d somehow fucked up. And he hadn’t, but still, they said, the extra monitoring was just a precaution. He had no reason to worry if he stayed on his best behavior.

So he’s had to stay on his best behavior for the better part of four years, always with the Ministry breathing down his neck. One step out of line, even unintentional, and he could end up right back with the Dementors, going mad from visions of his worst memories.

“I didn’t realize,” Potter says. “I thought you were just being aloof to spite me.”

“Maybe I was, a little,” Draco admits. “But you kept glaring at me.”

“I can try to stop,” Potter says, and then lets out a groan. “Merlin, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With what? This? Life?” Draco asks sardonically.

“Mostly this,” Potter says, gesturing between them. “We really are bonded forever, aren’t we? And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Seems so,” Draco says, and sighs. “I suppose we have to make the best of it.”

“I’ll try to be nicer,” Potter says after a moment. “You don’t deserve me giving you shit all the time.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco says, sincere for once. Somehow, they’ve come a very long way in a very short amount of time. “I suppose…” He swallows. “I suppose if there’s anything you need from me, I could make an attempt.”

“You could actually talk,” Potter says. “I mean. We haven’t really, until now.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you wanted to,” Draco says, and his voice threatens to crack, making him feel hideously vulnerable all of a sudden.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Potter says. “It’s weird, not talking when we’re bonded like this.”

“I can talk if you don’t glare at me.”

“I won’t,” Potter promises.

“Okay,” Draco says.

“Okay,” Potter says back, a smile forming on his lips. But then it fades. “If you did still hate me—after the last week and a half I’d understand.”

Draco sighs. “I don’t,” he says, and then stops, because he wonders if he should be admitting this at all.

“Huh?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Oh,” Potter says, and for a brief few seconds Draco wishes he could take it back. “Really?”

“Yes,” Draco says, looking down. “I don’t hate you. But you do make me angry.”

“You do too,” Potter says, snorting. “I feel like when it comes to routines we’re about as incompatible as it gets.”

“Speaking of which, your alarms drive me insane,” Draco says, frowning. “Can’t you just get up on the first one?”

“It’s difficult,” Potter says. “You could wake me, though.”

“I have a feeling you’d try to hex me.”

“Maybe,” Potter says, sounding rueful. Then he sighs, dropping his arms from around Draco to stretch.

Draco hates that he’s disappointed about it.

“Should we get up?” he asks anyway, and Potter nods and takes his hand so they can stand.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, and Draco looks up from brushing the dust off of his clothes and catches Potter’s gaze, intense and far too close.

He swallows thickly. “What?”

“I’m glad we talked,” Potter says. “And I really am sorry.”

Draco nods jerkily. “I’m sorry, too,” he says.

“Okay,” Potter says, and smiles.

All Draco can think about is kissing him.

Instead he turns toward the kitchen. “Let’s just go eat dinner,” he says, and Potter nods and follows him.

Just like that, the moment’s over.

Draco hates that he wishes it wasn’t.

\--

Potter is different around him after that. Not necessarily the same as with his friends—they still are a little awkward when they speak, though Draco wonders if that’s more due to the weirdness of the situation than anything. 

If Draco had to put a word to Potter’s behavior, he would call it cautious. At least Potter’s kept true to his word and stopped glaring at him.

Of course, that doesn’t help the way that Draco’s started to want him.

In fact, it makes it worse.

It’s the touching, he thinks, of course it is. He’s never been in a real relationship, and the way that their hands are always interlinked is starting to give his life a strange, domestic quality that he’s never had before. Worse, Potter’s starting touching him in other ways too, idly, the way he might with a lover—putting a hand on Draco’s shoulder as he reaches for something in a nearby cabinet, linking their ankles under the dinner table—and still, the wonderful, terrible cuddling at night.

Draco keeps waking up hard in the morning, dreams of Potter touching him in more ways than this just barely memorable before he blinks his eyes open. Then he prays his erection away before Potter wakes, even as he wishes he could curl closer into Potter’s arms.

Now that Potter isn’t quite as angry with him anymore, he just seems confused. Draco catches Potter watching him sometimes, curiosity in his eyes, and every time Draco thinks of asking him what he’s thinking, he stops himself.

It’s because he’s scared of what Potter might say, he realizes.

It’s because he might be starting to _like_ him.

Potter doesn’t seem to have the same reservations. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Potter asks once, just after Draco’s watched him bid the bookstore clerk farewell with a cheery smile.

“I wasn’t looking at you,” Draco lies, shrinking the new books they’ve just bought on Muggle exotic plants and wiping the smile off of his face.

“You were,” Potter insists, but doesn’t push it further.

Potter’s hand is warm in his as they leave the shop, and Draco wonders if Potter can feel the way his pulse has just gone three times faster.

For the most part, they pretend the bond doesn’t even exist—like it’s just coincidence that they have to be touching all the time, or that they avoid wizarding stores for fear of the press getting wind of it, or that every night they crawl into bed and Potter wraps his arms around Draco like it’s nothing.

It’s making Draco feel too strongly about him, and he doesn’t know what to do about it, so in the end he does nothing at all.

It’s not necessarily going well—they still bicker fairly frequently, though it’s nothing like before—but it’s at least not going poorly, until one night a month and a half in, when Draco receives an owl that makes his stomach drop.

“What is it?” Potter asks, looking up from his curry.

Draco makes a face. “Pansy wants to come visit.”

“Can’t you tell her no?” Potter asks, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“What if I don’t want to?” Draco asks, and really he’s just being contrary at this point. “You get to see your friends all the time.”

“Well, they didn’t try to sell you out to Voldemort, did they?” Potter mutters, his eyes going hard, and Draco drops his fork.

“You know what, fuck you,” Draco blurts out, suddenly incensed—and here it is. They’re fighting again.

Potter looks like he’s about to shout at him, brow tight, hands clenched into fists. But then something strange happens—he stops. 

Then he drops his head and sighs. 

“Sorry,” Potter says, “That was out of line.”

Draco stares at him, not quite processing it—a second apology in as many months. “What?”

“I said sorry, okay?” Potter says, not meeting his eyes—but under the table, where their ankles are hooked, he moves his foot against Draco’s, a quiet note of apology.

Suddenly Draco’s chest is tight, and it’s not out of anger this time. 

Potter really is trying to be nice to him.

Sure, he did say something awful, but it’s not like it wasn’t the truth—and it’s making Draco’s heart beat just a bit faster.

He looks at the table, thoughts swirling, impossible to pin down. Suddenly he’s terrified, because if Potter keeps doing things like bloody apologizing then Draco won’t ever be able to stop maybe-liking him, and then Potter will find out—

“Malfoy,” Potter says, brow crinkling. “She can come over, really. It’s fine.”

Draco gives a small, tight shake of his head, and shoves the thoughts of how fond he’s growing of Potter right now out of his brain. “Later, maybe. I don’t want to have to explain this to her,” he says, gesturing between them, which is at least partially the truth.

The other reason is that despite having lived abroad for years now, Pansy still knows Draco almost better than Draco knows himself, and she’s going to take one look at him and know that he’s secretly smitten with Potter—and _that’s_ not something he wants to explain to anyone.

“Just tell her we’re dating,” Potter says after a pause, conveniently right when Draco has decided it’s safe to begin eating his curry again.

Thus, he chokes.

“ _What?_ ” he asks, between a fit of coughs.

“Are you all right? It’s not a big deal,” Potter says. “I just figured that’s what it looks like anyway.”

Draco narrows his eyes at him. “Wait, have _you_ been telling people that?”

“Er,” Potter says, and drops his eyes to the table. “Maybe once or twice. Molly and Arthur wanted to know why I stopped coming to Sunday dinner.”

“You—” Draco clicks his mouth shut, at a loss for words. “Potter, you’re mad.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to say?” Potter asks. “If I told them about the bond then they definitely would have thought you cursed me or something like that—and anyway, we share a bed. It’s not like it’s that much of a stretch.”

Draco’s heart twists uncomfortably in his chest, because no, it’s not a stretch. He wouldn’t mind dating Potter, not at all, and he’s absolutely positive Potter doesn’t feel the same.

And yet, Potter’s been thinking about it too, hasn’t he? He has to have at least somewhat, if that’s the lie he’s been telling.

Draco sighs. “Whatever,” he says, frustrated because he doesn’t know what to say or what to feel, frustrated because honestly he just wants Potter to hug him right now, but he’s going to have to wait several hours until they go to bed for that to happen because it’s not like he can just _ask_ for one.

Potter frowns. “Why don’t you ever say what you’re thinking?”

“Maybe I don’t feel comfortable sharing each and every thought with you, Potter,” Draco mutters back, and he knows he’s getting defensive but he can’t help it.

Potter’s quiet for a moment, and Draco almost thinks he’s getting ready to yell again, but when Draco looks up at him, Potter looks contemplative instead. “I wish you were more comfortable with it, maybe,” Potter says, then blinks and shakes his head. “Er, that was weird. Forget I said anything.”

Draco stares at him. “We’re not dating,” he says quietly.

“No, but. I dunno. Sometimes it feels like we might as well be,” Potter says, avoiding his eyes. “I mean. With the bond.” 

Draco’s chest goes tight. “Potter, what are you saying?” He can barely believe they’re having this conversation. Vaguely he wonders if he’s dreaming. “Potter, I—” He stops and shakes his head. “We barely even like each other.”

“Yeah, I know,” Potter says, averting his eyes. “But it’s… I dunno.” He sighs. “It’s nice not to be alone.”

Draco can’t look at Potter anymore. “It is nice,” he says, fiddling with the end of his fork. “But that doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Potter agrees. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Potter,” Draco says. “It’s fine.”

Potter nods slowly. “Okay,” he says.

Then he reaches out across the table and takes Draco’s hand, and Draco can’t hide a sigh.

“What?” Potter asks.

Draco can feel himself going red. He looks away. “I’m just not used to—to touching people.”

“Do you not like it?” Potter asks, looking as if he’s about to pull away, but Draco shakes his head.

“No, it’s just… different.” He looks down at their hands intertwined, Potter’s skin pleasantly warm against his. “You do it so easily.”

“I didn’t used to,” Potter says. “It took time before I really felt comfortable hugging my friends all the time, even. I…” He looks away briefly, and when he looks back, there’s something contemplative in his eyes. “I wasn’t touched very much as a child.”

“Oh,” Draco says, looking down at the table. “Me neither, I suppose.”

Potter looks surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, I mean. Can you imagine hugging my father?” Draco asks, arching his brow.

Potter makes a face. “Point taken.”

“And Mother loves me, but she’s not the most affectionate person either.” Draco thinks about it for a moment, thinks of growing up in Slytherin, where showing too much fond emotion for others was sometimes regarded as weakness. “I had Pansy growing up, but other than that, Slytherins aren’t really the hugging bunch.”

“I could definitely see that,” Potter says. Then he squeezes Draco’s hand. “I hope you don’t mind too much now, then.”

“I don’t mind,” Draco admits, and swallows. “It’s… it’s not bad.”

“Well, good,” Potter says. “We’d be in unbearable pain if we stopped.”

Draco snorts, and without thinking, he responds, “You don’t have to worry about stopping.” But the words come out just a little too soft, and he flushes again and adds, “I mean, obviously I also don’t want to be in unbearable pain, so.”

“That makes two of us,” Potter says, the edge of his mouth quirking into a smile. “And… er. I am sorry. About being such an arse earlier.”

“Accepted, I suppose,” Draco says, and then for good measure—“I’m sorry for being an arse, just in general.”

Potter snorts. “Really, it hasn’t been so bad, you know? Living together. I mean, we fight, but I think it’d be weird if we didn’t fight at least a little, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably,” Draco concedes, a weird fluttering in his chest that’s only exacerbated by the way Potter starts idly running his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand. “It doesn’t seem realistic.”

“But I am trying to be nicer,” Potter says, meeting his eyes, making his heart flip. “After all, we’re going to be in this for a long time, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Draco says, and tries to pretend his voice didn’t just crack.

That night they crawl into bed, and Potter finally holds him close, and Draco is embarrassed at just how fast he curls into Potter’s embrace.

He’s terrified Potter will push him away—but Potter holds him tighter.

\--

They’re eating lunch at work later that week, and Neville keeps shooting them weird looks that Draco is trying to ignore. Fortunately, Potter doesn’t have the same sensibility.

“Is something wrong?” Potter asks.

“No, not really,” Neville says. “Just. Did something happen? Between you two?”

“No,” Draco says, “Why would you think that?”

“Just a feeling,” Neville says, and shrugs.

Potter seems to think nothing more of it, but Draco replays the moment over and over in his head throughout the day as he makes his potions and Potter puts together a weird Muggle document called a spreadsheet on his magic-proofed computer. Neville’s right—it does feel like something’s changed. He’s catching Potter staring at him more again lately, that curiosity in his eyes, and Draco doesn’t know what to think of it.

Draco wants to stare back, but he doesn’t. Only in the morning hours, when Potter hasn’t yet woken up, does he allow himself to look at Potter’s face, the curve of his mouth and eyes and the dark stubble that grows overnight on his brown skin. He wants to touch it, and doesn’t; he catches himself fantasizing about kissing him all the time now, and doesn’t do that either.

It’s been a little over a month when Potter is reading through his mail at the breakfast table and gives a large sigh.

“What?” Draco asks, frowning a bit when he sees that Potter looks wary.

“Molly wants me to invite you for Sunday dinner,” Potter says.

Oh, Merlin. Draco blanches. “They’d eat me alive.”

“I don’t think so,” Potter says. Draco makes a face at that, and he adds, “No, really. I think they’ve sort of gotten used to the fact that we’re—well, er, together.”

“They think we’re _dating_ ,” Draco remembers, and nearly decides to plop his head into his porridge.

“And they, er. Sort of told the rest of the family that too? I mean, Ron and Hermione know, obviously, but, er…”

Draco only stares at him in horror.

“I didn’t know, honest!” Potter says, catching sight of his face. “And it’s not like I could’ve stopped them.”

Draco rubs at his temples. “What would happen if you said no?”

Potter shrugs. “Probably they’d hound me about it for approximately the rest of the century.”

“I supposed as much,” Draco grumbles. “You know what? Fine.”

“Really?” Potter asks, and brightens, and all at once it occurs to Draco that to Potter, the Weasleys are basically family, and also that not everyone feels as excruciatingly uncomfortable seeing their family as Draco does.

Potter must have missed them.

“Yes, really,” Draco says, already feeling weary. “Just don’t say anything weird about our imaginary dating life.”

“I won’t,” Potter says. When Draco looks up, he’s beaming, which does very strange things to the butterflies in Draco’s stomach. “Anyway, we’ll be holding hands most of the time anyway. I doubt people will think to ask much.”

“And you promise they won’t all be talking about me behind my back?” Draco asks, returning to his porridge.

“Well, maybe,” Potter says, and at least he’s honest. “But you’re not a bad person. Hopefully they’ll see that eventually.”

“Potter, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Draco says, aiming for dry nonchalance but not quite hitting it—he’s more pleased than he wants to be, and it bleeds through.

“I am trying, you know,” Potter says.

“About time,” Draco says, even though really, he’s grateful.

In return, Potter reaches over and squeezes his hand from across the table, and Draco can’t fight a pleased flush.

The Weasleys’ place isn’t as terrible as he’d expected to be. Sure, it’s too loud and too crowded and everyone eyes him at first as if he’s about to hex the lot of them, but also Potter has his arm around his waist all the way up until dinnertime, which is distracting enough that Draco can almost forget he’s so uncomfortable. Neville is there as well at least, and of course Hermione with Ron, and by the time they sit down to eat, Draco’s gotten dragged into a philosophical conversation about plant sentience that doesn’t leave him time to be nervous.

“So,” Ron says after dinner, where they’re sitting out in the backyard under a warming charm. “You two, huh?”

Draco frowns, because he thought that Ron knew about the bond, but also Molly and Arthur are within earshot so it’s not like he can correct him. “I suppose it’s rather unexpected.”

“Unexpected is an understatement,” Ron says, arching his brow. “You two look happier than I would’ve thought.”

“Ron,” Hermione chides. “Leave them alone.”

Potter simply looks embarrassed. “He’s not bad,” he says, and it takes a moment for Draco to realize he’s blushing.

“A stunning compliment, thank you,” Draco says sardonically, and Potter laughs and changes the subject.

They sit out there for longer than Draco would’ve thought he’d ever agree to, but once the Weasleys make peace with his existence, it seems they’re treating him as if he’d always been there. It’s a strange feeling, having so many people who he used to mutually sneer at in school now having conversations with him just because he’s with Potter.

All the same, it’s tiring, and he’s relieved later when Potter looks at him. “Draco,” Potter says, and Draco jumps. “Want to go?”

“All right,” Draco says, stunned a little. Potter’s never called him Draco before, and of course it’s just for show, but he has to fight to keep a straight face as they stand.

They bid their farewells, and Harry gets a fair few hugs while Draco waits awkwardly by his side.

But Draco’s surprised when Molly brings him in for a hug as well.

“Take good care of him,” she says, patting him on the back, and Draco’s heart twists.

“I will,” he says, even though they’re not dating, not anything to each other. He’s not sure how to feel about any of this.

Then they Apparate home.

“Was it okay?” Potter asks, after they’ve gotten ready for bed and climbed under the sheets. Potter’s arm is warm around him, and Draco’s heart is beating steady and slow.

He hates how good it feels.

“It was tolerable,” Draco says, and then because he’s trying to stay on Potter’s good side, he adds, “Molly is nice.”

“She’s the best,” Potter says, sounding pleased.

“What was Ron on about, anyway?” Draco asks. “I thought he knew we were bonded.”

“I dunno,” Potter says. “I think he was making weird assumptions. He might’ve thought we really were dating after all.”

“You should tell him we’re not,” Draco says, because the idea of it, even though Potter doesn’t—can’t—want him makes his chest hurt.

Slowly, Potter starts to idly run his hand up and down Draco’s arm, and Draco suddenly can’t think. “I suppose I should,” Potter says.

Draco swallows thickly, rolling over to face him. “You called me Draco today.”

“Yeah, I figured it would seem more natural,” Potter says. “Was it weird?”

“It was,” Draco says, making a face.

“I don’t have to do it again.”

“I don’t care that much,” Draco lies.

“Draco,” Potter says, and Draco can’t stop his breath from hitching.

They’re very close, he realizes, when Potter’s lips twitch into a smile. They’re very close and Draco is looking at Potter’s mouth and he’s pretty sure Potter can tell.

“You don’t care that much, hmm?” Potter asks.

“I don’t,” Draco maintains, but his voice is shaky and his body is on fire and somehow Potter is leaning in and Draco feels like he’s going to explode.

One moment they’re not kissing, and the next they are. Potter’s mouth is soft and his stubble lightly scratches Draco’s face, but it feels good, better than Potter’s tightest embrace. Potter slips his tongue into Draco’s mouth, soft and hot and wet, and Draco wants to either groan or cry. He wants Potter more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

They’re both tired, he thinks. Maybe that’s why this is happening, that and the couple of months of having their bodies pressed close together while they sleep, of Draco reveling in as much of Potter’s touch as he could get. Still, Draco’s terrified and blown away all at once when Potter sits up to pull his own shirt off, when Potter lies down again and starts kissing Draco’s neck and collarbones and Draco can’t hold back his gasps.

“This okay?” Potter says, and Draco nods, sliding his hands up Potter’s chest, barely able to believe this is happening.

“Yes,” Draco says, and then Potter nips at his neck and he lets out a whimper. “ _Yes_.”

“You sound good,” Potter says, and the huskiness in his voice gives Draco a rush of pleasure.

“I want,” Draco says, and can’t bring himself to say anything after. Instead he drifts his hand downwards to Potter’s waistband, and Potter’s eyes flutter shut.

“Okay,” Potter says, and undoes his jeans.

They haven’t talked about any of this, Draco thinks, as he slides down the bed, thinking of touching Potter, of taking him into his mouth and hearing him groan. But part of him doesn’t even care. He feels heady with lust, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to stop even if he wanted to.

So he doesn’t say anything, and neither does Potter.

Instead Potter’s hands go tight in his hair when Draco sucks him down, cock heavy between his lips.

“Sorry, sorry, _oh_ ,” Potter groans out, and Draco can’t meet his eyes so he just focuses on trying to make Potter feel as good as he can. “Fuck, please, Draco—”

Draco’s heart seizes. He pulls off slowly, wiping his mouth, because maybe this will only happen once and he should try to make the best of it. “You should fuck me.”

“Shit, okay,” Potter says, pupils blown out, his chest moving with the heaviness of his breath. 

“Okay,” Draco says, suddenly nervous, even as Potter helps him out of the rest of his clothes, even as Potter spreads him out on top of the sheets, on his hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow. Potter murmurs a lubrication spell, and it occurs to Draco that he’s never done this with someone else before—and maybe he should tell Potter that, but then Potter’s fingers are slick at his arse and he can’t speak.

“Tell me if it’s too fast,” Potter says, and then he presses a finger in tight inside of him and Draco groans. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” is all Draco can manage to get out around his panting. 

“You’re doing so good,” Potter says, even though Draco’s only taken one finger, even though Potter’s just barely twisting it around inside him. It gives Draco an odd flush of pleasure, and he presses his face further into the pillow.

“You’re being too nice,” he mutters, even though it doesn’t make any sense because he _wants_ Potter to be nice to him. Also, they’re fucking.

“I want to be nice,” Potter says, and starts sliding his finger out, then in again. “You’re letting me inside you.”

Draco groans. He almost tells Potter to do away with the prep and just fuck him already, but then Potter adds another finger and the stretch is just painful enough to shut him up. He somehow didn’t think of how hideously vulnerable he would feel, on his knees below Potter, Potter’s hand moving in him with soft, wet sounds. He’s glad Potter can’t see his face.

“Want to make you feel good,” Potter says, and then he casts some sort of spell that makes the lube go warm and Draco chokes.

“Potter, what _is_ that, _oh_ ,” Draco gasps, because it’s not just warm, it’s tingling, and at that point Potter seems to have found his prostate because he has to cry out at how good it feels.

“Trick I learned at uni,” Potter says, and honestly Draco thinks it’s bizarre for wizards to go to Muggle uni but he’s never been gladder that Potter went than now.

“Sleep with a lot of people there?” Draco asks, and there’s literally no reason for the weird press of jealousy in his chest but it’s there anyway.

“A few,” Potter says, and presses another finger inside him. “No one like you.”

“What does that even _mean_ —oh _fuck_ ,” Draco says, because Potter’s just wrapped his other hand, slick with the tingling lube, around his cock.

“No one this intense,” Potter says, and Draco’s too much of a mess to respond.

“Potter,” he says, and then stops because he’s almost said _please_ and he thinks that’d be far too embarrassing.

“What?” Potter asks.

“You know.”

“I don’t,” Potter says. “Consent is important you know.”

“Oh, shut up, you arse.”

“I don’t think I will,” Potter says, changing the angle of the fingers he’s pumping into Draco, making him moan.

“Just—just get in me, okay?” Draco grits out.

“You sure you want it?” Potter asks, his tone light, teasing, and Draco hates how hot it is.

“Yes, fucking hell, _please_.”

“Okay,” Potter says, laughter in his voice. Then he pulls his fingers out, and Draco only misses them for a moment before Potter’s slicking his cock. “Turn over,” Potter says.

Draco swallows and complies, and then he almost wishes he didn’t, because the sight of Potter naked in front of him is almost too much. Potter’s hand is on his ankle—they can’t stop touching even now, and they’re going to touch even more.

He’ll never be able to stop thinking about this, will he?

Maybe it was a bad idea.

But he can’t convince himself it’s a bad enough idea to stop, and when Potter pushes his knees up high and climbs over him, Draco can only clutch at Potter’s waist.

“Touch yourself,” Potter says, voice husky, and Draco groans and wraps his hand around himself just as the tip of Potter’s cock presses into him.

Potter is thicker than he’d imagined, thick and hot and slick, and Draco can’t control the tiny moans he’s making as Potter presses himself all the way in. It hurts, but only for a moment, and then Potter starts moving inside of him and Draco loses track of anything but how good it feels.

Potter kisses him. “You feel so good,” he says, voice cracking, and Draco can’t say anything as he moves his hand on his own cock between them. He’s going to come far too fast but he can’t help it—Potter in bed is everything he could’ve wanted and more.

He’s going to be ruined for sex with anyone else, he thinks—then it occurs to him that it’s not like he’ll be able to have sex with anyone else anyways, bonded to Potter as he is.

Not that he’d want to. This alone enough to cement his attachment to Potter for at least a century.

“Come on, come for me,” Potter says, pressing the words into Draco’s jaw, and Draco stops thinking and just lets himself feel—Potter thick inside him, Potter’s arms boxing him against the mattress, Potter’s lips on his jaw, his cheek.

He doesn’t want this to be the last time, he realizes, as Potter kisses him again deeply and he comes.

He’s falling in love with Potter.

The pleasure comes in waves, and he shudders through it, gasping. Above him, Potter moans and fucks into him faster, and Draco can feel Potter’s cock start to pulse as he comes too, moments after Draco does.

“Merlin,” Potter groans out, forehead against Draco’s cheek. “That was—fuck.”

Draco’s chest is tight. He can’t say anything at all.

Potter pulls out and lies beside him then, and if it weren’t for the bond Draco thinks he might’ve fled. As it is, he lets Potter wrap an arm around his waist, even as he stares blankly up at the ceiling, panicking.

“Draco?” Potter says. “Hey, you all right?”

Draco doesn’t know why Potter’s started calling him that. They had sex and now it’s over and Potter can’t possibly want him beyond that, so why is Potter’s voice so soft?

“Draco,” Potter says again, and Draco has to look at him.

For some reason, Potter looks just as terrified as Draco does.

“What?” Draco finally answers, his voice rusty.

“You’re not saying anything,” Potter says. “It’s—was that okay?”

Draco gives a sharp, tight nod. “Yeah.”

“You have to talk,” Potter says. “You have to talk or none of this is going to work.”

Fuck. Draco opens his mouth, but his throat has clenched so tightly he can barely breathe. “I can’t say what I want to,” he says then. “You won’t even want to look at me.”

“What are you talking about?” Potter asks, but Draco doesn’t know how to explain.

He’s bottled everything up for years and it’s worked out fine, so how is this different? He has to be on his best behavior.

And that includes not falling in love with Harry Potter.

“Draco,” Potter says again, thumb stroking against his back, and Draco has to squeeze his eyes shut in order not to cry.

“It’s stupid,” Draco says. “It’s all stupid.”

“It’s not,” Potter says. “I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

“Why?” Draco asks. “Why do you even care?”

“We’re bonded, for one,” Potter says. “Also, we just slept together, and—” He cuts himself off.

“And what?”

“And anyway, I’ve always wanted to know what you were thinking,” Potter admits quietly. “Even when I did hate you.”

Draco opens his eyes to make a face at him. “Isn’t that a little strange?”

“Didn’t you feel the same?” Potter asks, and all right, fine, he’s caught him there.

“I suppose,” Draco says, and sighs. “Fine. I liked it. The sex, I mean.” Then he turns his face into the pillow. 

“What’s wrong with that?” Potter asks, and Draco’s chest is so tight.

“I liked it too much,” Draco admits. “I want to do it again, but you don’t even like me and I—” He snaps his mouth shut because Merlin, now he’s rambling.

“I do like you,” Potter says quietly.

Draco stiffens. “What?”

“I do like you,” Potter repeats. 

Draco looks up to frown at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Potter says.

“But…” Draco trails off.

“But what?” Potter asks, leaning closer, the words puffs of breath on Draco’s chin.

“We’re not that nice to each other,” Draco points out. “And we’re not actually dating.”

“We could be,” Potter says.

Draco shuts his eyes, hope trying to bloom in his chest so much it hurts. “You hated me a couple of months ago.”

“I was wrong,” Potter admits, and Draco opens his eyes in surprise. “You’re nothing like you were during the war, or before it.”

“I’m trying not to be,” Draco says honestly.

“I know,” Potter says. “That’s why I kissed you.”

“Oh,” Draco says, and then he bites his lip. “Is that why you fucked me, too?”

“I fucked you because I wanted to,” Potter says. “I wanted _you_.” 

“So you would—” Draco starts, then has to take a breath. “So you might do it again?”

“I want to,” Potter says. “If that’s okay.”

“We’d maybe have to be dating,” Draco says, cheeks going hot.

“We can be dating,” Potter says. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Warm, steady pleasure blooms in Draco’s chest. “I suppose that’s fine then.”

Potter chuckles. “Fine, huh?”

“It’s—it’s nice, all right?” Draco admits.

Potter laughs. When he’s gone quiet again, he adds, “We still have things to work on, you know.”

“Obviously,” Draco says, because they still bicker probably too much and also he thinks he’s been hiding approximately half of his feelings at any given time. “But your family already thinks we’re dating anyway, so we might as well.”

“Is that the only reason?” Potter asks, and arches a brow.

“No,” Draco says, and stubbornly leaves it at that.

“Draco,” Potter says, leaning closer, bumping their foreheads together. 

“Fine,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “I want to, okay?”

“Good,” Potter says, and kisses him. “I want to, too.”

Draco never imagined they’d make it this far—at worst he thought they’d continue fighting, resenting the bond until the day one of them dies. But mostly in this moment they just kiss, and then halfway through kissing they fall asleep, and Draco wakes up in the morning hard but still insists that both of them use a teeth cleaning charm before they kiss again.

“Ah,” Potter says, a noise of realization as he presses a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. “We can shower together now.”

“Potter,” Draco reprimands, unreasonably embarrassed about the idea of being so exposed, even though he’s still naked and blindingly hard and also has been rutting up against Potter for the better part of five minutes.

“No more headaches in the morning,” Potter points out.

“Is that the only reason you want to?” Draco asks, brow arched.

Potter snorts and takes his hand. “Maybe,” he says with an unfairly wicked grin, and leans in to kiss Draco again.

Yes, Draco never imagined they’d make it this far—but here they are. He thinks with some horror that he’s going to have to tell his parents and Pansy and probably also the rest of the world, and that he’s probably going to get weird questions about the Imperius Curse from his parole Auror, and that someday, if they last far in the future, they’re probably going to have to talk about actually getting married to get rid of this damn bond.

But when he looks at Potter again, Potter’s smiling. Potter’s arm is warm around him, and Draco can’t help it—he smiles too.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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